Dreamed Into Being
by Gin-kyo
Summary: Griffith was their Soul and the fire of their souls glowed within him, but he felt no warmth, no warmth at all.


**Dreamed Into Being**

* * *

Griffith was thirteen and a half years-old when he traded winding back alleys for great open fields under the free sky.

He took his little army with him.

The play-pretend king was as real as any other. Not the King, the Sovereign One. But a king of commoners, king of wild children, king of stolen bread, king of little fires. He called the other boys to him with his well-practiced battle shouts even before his self-education in the finer points of military formation.

And yet, the command was almost unnecessary in this, their first charge. Griffith tossed his head back and his shouts turned into joyous, uncontainable laughter. A chorus of youthful voices echoed him.

How many of them were there?

Perhaps only thirty or so, all knight boys he played war with on the muddy streets of their slum cluster. They were escaped children on escaped horses riding out from the city like a herd of wild stallions set free. (Plunder the stables before the sun rises!) They thundered over the planes, never touching the traveled roads with their tracks. Pounding hooves shook the earth down to its core and their spirits drummed together until they became one indestructible beat.

The break of a liquid amber dawn. All atop bay horses with black manes, they were proud men now. And then there was Griffith, at front with the snowy steed, the proudest of them all. Griffith, with the face as pale and soft as sunlight poured into the clouds. Griffith, with his silver-white hair dancing in the wind like a flag to follow before they had any emblem of their own to fly. Before they even knew what they were.

Bandits eh? Marauders? Birds of prey?

Hawks, Griffith said.

Hawks they were then.

Long had they had their badges and didn't know it, for they were the poor once-little boys who picked narrow wing feathers off the ground and called it treasure.

Speed. Let us keep our wing-beats soft for now.

It was a time when they knew one thing, that they were strong and full of fire. Their bodies were lithe, their armor was light and they moved as fast as a river coursing down the mountainside. As one.

Yes, the White Hawk had his army even then.

* * *

_They say ancient emperors once wore armor like this._

Griffith believed it to be true. That was why his first set of armor as a true hired sword attracted him to begin with. The least that could be said about it was that it impressed. He'd acquired it from a knight's armory after taking up the banner of the Flying Sword. The Hawks, formally employed as mercenaries serving the Chuder Empire. It was a prodigious start and a necessary one. His great presence on the battlefield…it became otherworldly. _They would say._

The cuirass, with its physique modeled in metal would make an imposing build even on a full-grown man. There were pieces for his arms and legs too. The armor was now resting on its stand inside his tent. Griffith sat, turned away from his planning table and watched the flickering orange candlelight pulse along its hard contours. Wearing it made him feel strong. Indeed, because it _was_ strong. It protected from strikes and stray arrows. And it…seeped it's outward strength inside as well, deep into his body, hopefully straight down into his core.

His brow knitted above focused eyes, frowning in thought.

He was beginning to hate this armor. _Too strong_, he decided. _A falsehood. _

The Hawks' days of plundering valuables that moved on wagons and collecting ransoms on minor nobles they pulled from cozy carriages were behind them. They'd grown out of that and now came the lucrative business of war.

On his table there was a small burlap sack. He didn't know why he was keeping it, really. But there was one other possession with it, a child's play sword. His fingers traced the wood grain.

Casca's voice sounded from the other side of the canvas and she pushed through the tent flap suddenly. Griffith! The shipment! We just got the—" She halted. "Griffith?"

The expression on her face quickly turned from excitement to uneasiness. Griffith blinked, thinking that perhaps holding onto the ruined little bag was a bad idea when her eyes fell upon it and changed her mood so suddenly. "That's excellent news." He said. "Casca, don't look so troubled, I'm very glad to hear it."

She smiled a little, gave the slightest bow.

"Casca," he called just as she was about to push through the tent flap. "Would you bring me a bowl of tonight's supper?" No commanding tone in his voice. It is a simple request.

Her eyes brightened. "Yes. Just one moment."

She returned quickly with a bowl of steaming broth with generous portions stewed vegetables and meat and a hunk of hard bread. He reached out to accept it, hands lingered on the bowl with hers as he looked at her in grateful acknowledgment of her service. Something was taking a toll on her…something beyond the stresses of battle. Casca seemed to be in need of a little more reassurance lately.

He smiled kindly. "Thank you."

She drew her hands away, a little too quickly and smiled back. "Of course. You're welcome. You should—uh, make sure to eat well. With all the food we got from those shipment carts, there's plenty to go around."

He knew that these were not truly the words she'd wanted to say to him, but he nodded in reply. Casca left him in peace, went off the serve her own dinner.

He drank the broth but didn't touch any of the solid morsels.

Tonight was the night.

* * *

After everyone else in the camp had gone to sleep, Griffith walked out into the fields of tall swaying grass. His clothes were light: a loose, sleeveless linen tunic and worn leather turnshoes. Much too light for this hour, but he enjoyed the cool air on his skin nonetheless. His thin belt was looped around the wooden sword.

Gennon had stipulated a certain look and feel to his state of dress. _Come to me like one emerging from the forest, _he wrote …Such vague daydreams. The true meaning of that vision wasn't quite clear enough for Griffith to interpret with confidence. But Gennon elaborated in his instructions: _Wear your simplest clothes. Hair unbound. No adornments. No perfumes. Come as you are, or rather, as how you first were. _Gennon's great desire was for village boys and he could even see past kingly armor to what he desired most.

He went on to write to him in the letter of agreements a sort of clumsy poetry about how true beauty was spoiled by a heavy layer of opulence. It seemed appropriate, coming from a man dripping in royal colors and square bevel-cut jewels. Their entire correspondence had since turned to ash in the fireplace. (as was agreed) Griffith met all the stipulations and received a third of his purchase orders in good faith. Food, supplies, equipment. The horses, armor and weapons would come later. His men were eating well first and foremost.

Now there was only one thing left he wanted to do before meeting with the lord of Chuder to fulfill his end of the bargain. Griffith made his way up a low hill, to where a group of swords had been plunged into earth mounds as markers for the fallen.

The last campaign had been a bloody one.

Lazy little fireflies floated their way through the embedded blades, casting their fleeting greenish-yellow glow on the pillars of shiny metal. Some came to rest on the hilts, sending out their gentle pulsing signals. The lights were like wisps folded into the steel, like little spirits come to inhabit them for just a moment.

Looking on the blades, Griffith's heart was troubled.

He remembered how the war games on cobbled streets ended for some, how they would thrust their wooden sword hilt-deep between breast and arm, dramatically feigned the death throes, a play of the agony and the ecstasy of a warrior's final cry. He remembered how he would drop to his knees, feigning a deep and silent mourning for the loss of his comrades. Death's hold lasted for about twelve seconds before the fallen children miraculously sprung back to life, roused their leader from his stupor of grief, ready for more play. Then begun another round of life. It was a cycle. Never ending play.

Foolish children, they were once. Or wise, maybe. But that time was gone.

_Is it for good or for ill?_ Griffith wondered. _To grow up with your soldiers?_

All these years it had seemed like the greatest fortune. It was once, he was certain, very good. …But now he was unsure, because now, an incessant pain was spreading across his heart, cold and ghostly.

He couldn't make up his mind on the matter.

The wooden sword felt awkward in his grip and that caused him a spike of irrational frustration. He had no practical use for it anymore, but his grip on it tightened like one would hold onto a faded memory. Where was the boy who could wield this sword so skillfully? Why did something that once made him feel invincible suddenly make him feel so weak? Never mind. It was time to be rid of it. He would shed _this_.

Slowly, he knelt to the ground and raised the child's wooden play sword. Flipped his grip on the hilt, pointed it downward and shoved it into the earth mound at the head of the group of shining burial blades. It wouldn't dig in at first. It was very blunt and the cords of Griffith's arm tensed with a great deal of force. He pressed with all of his weight and drove it like a stake into the ground, this less like a noble weapon and more like poor picket joining the fallen. The wooden blade stood solemn among its taller companions, with no floating gold-green fires to grace it. A memorial to boyhood dreams. Of the ones that had died and were lost.

He stood. The wind made rolling waves in the grass, whipped his hair into disarray. He was prepared. He felt ready now.

Except.

Except…

* * *

A sweltering red evening.

He was quite young.

Griffith walked alone through the streets, tired and sweaty from a day's worth of play when one large hand grabbed a fist full of his loose hair like the snap of jaws catching onto prey.

It yanked him up off his feet, dragged him through a punched-out shanty door and beat him against the wall with such force that dust was loosened from the ceiling, floated down in cones of light beaming from holes in the shack roof and a bloodied spit dribbled over Griffith's chin to pool on the soft soil ground.

He couldn't catch his breath. It happened too brutally fast. From the corner of his eye he saw a single pallet half-embedded in the dirt of an otherwise empty shack. Griffith knew what these sorts of places were used for and thought of screaming out as loud as he could. But he also knew, just as well, that the scream of an unseen child was a commonplace noise in the seedy lowest level and would prick no ears. No one would interfere; no one would come to the rescue. No one would care. Griffith's back was forced against the wall, the man's heavy body was pinning him and a rancid drunkard breath puffing in his face. The man moved his hands to fumble with the front of his pants and Griffith used the opening to land a swift hard punch on the nose. He was fairly strong and very precise. He might have broken it.

The man howled curses, backed off for a moment, looked up and—

No scream or whimper or any sound at all save for harsh breathing escaped from Griffith's mouth. He stood his ground. Focused.

Griffith didn't snarl. He had no need to, no; his eyes were brimming with sharp teeth.

His gaze gleamed dangerously like polished knife blades of cold blue steel, like cutting shards of ice. And the man, sober enough to sense imminent danger, took his hands away and stumbled back, bewitched by fear. Fear, that if he advanced even a single step forward, a crackling lightning bolt was poised somewhere in the upper corner of the dark, dusty room ready to strike him dead. Waiting on the command of a blink… _But damn it all, the boy isn't blinking!_ He bared his eyes like a readied weapon. He waited calmly, ready to react. Willing to unleash hell, fight like a Kushan tiger if he dared to lunge at him again.

_This boy is truly fearsome_, the man thought. _Something unreal._ _He would bury a spearhead in my side if I laid myself over him, split a rock over my head as soon as I bowed it._ City children were known to carry little weapons with an actual metal bite, he reasoned, taking another step back. And another. Griffith took one sound step forward, head tilting downward.

_Fuck this. I pulled in a child, a particularly soft child. A quick fuck. Not… this!_

Griffith scrambled out of the shanty and ran down the uneven street until his lungs burned from the exertion. Soon, he bumped into a group of boys he knew. "Griffith!" they called in concern when they saw him. They dusted off his shoulders and broke into chatter. "What trouble did you get into this time? Something really bad?" "Are you hurt?" "Haha, you're pretty tough!" and "Steal anything good?"

Griffith doubled over to try and catch his breath. "Haha, one at a time."

Nightfall was quickly approaching and all the children dispersed save for one who was still wide-eyed with curiosity and concern.

"Griffith," the boy whispered eagerly. "My sister is a little pretty and a little handsome too so when there are those men roving about she takes some mud from the ground and smears it over her face. I think it helps because no one has bothered her in months." He paused and chuckled lightly. "It makes her look some kind of mud monster. Nobles don't like to get their fancy clothes ruined."

The boy's cheeks colored lightly with embarrassment and he gave Griffith a meaningful look. "So…maybe if you—"

"Oh!" Griffith said, "Don't worry about that, I-"

But Griffith was already having dirt generously patted on his cheeks and over the bridge his nose. A flower stem crown, fashioned for that day's play, wilted, barely clinging together was still tangled in his hair, its tiny blue mist weeds and waxy buttercups dangled over his bangs like gemstones. He looked undeniably regal in this feral make-up, smiling brightly through the streaks of reddish dirt. "I really don't think nobles care about a little dirt one way or the other."

"So," his voice was hush. "Do you think someone sold you out?"

Griffith tilted his head. "I think not. It was a random act; he was slobbering drunk and also a little paranoid, I think."

The boy wasn't looking him in the eyes. "Would _you _sell you?"

"What?"

"You know." the boy said, feeling very sheepish and now a little mortified by the way Griffith was staring at him…or into him. "Like what woman do when they get married to the brothel."

Griffith wrinkled his nose, crinkled the coating of dirt. "No, not ever."

"Not even for the castle?"

"Not even if the castle was made of solid gold." then gently, "Why are you asking something like that?"

The boy looked at Griffith with a new sense of wonder. "We will reach the top by our own strength. Stir up our own wind to soar on_._" he said, repeating words that Griffith uttered many times. (_It will be fun_, he sometimes added.)

"Yes." Griffith nodded with the confidence and authority. "I have a plan."

A plan for nearly everything, it seemed to the boy. Griffith's plans made him seem more adult-like and earned him much respect because those plans were usually materialized into reality. Earned bread and protection and treasure, made them undefeated among other gangs of stray children, some of whom got tired of defeat and would join up with them instead. But that wasn't the point, was it? Plans could come together perfectly but…

The boy felt a pain in his chest.

"But sometimes, t-to ease the suffering… of their families… Griffith, my mother…she—"

He started to weep. He knelt to the ground, covered his face. Griffith knelt with him, saying nothing.

* * *

Nightfall changed the look of the castle entirely. It was a rocky islet standing in the center of an indigo sea, a noble monolith surrounded by a spray of pale stars. Terribly beautiful. Brave in its stunning loneliness. Here he was, at the foot of the tallest tower of the great fortress of northern Chuder. He didn't desire this castle, but this castle desired him. It would swallow him up if he let it, take him through its gates and never ever spit him out. He walked up many stone steps and stairways before coming to a large door. It opened for his three light knocks.

"My Lord, Gennon." Griffith greeting and bowed.

"Griffith." Gennon sighed. "At long last."

Gennon happily received him with a wide sweep of his arm and then greedily shut the door.

"You smell like wood smoke." was the first thing Gennon said when they were both safely inside, sounding tremendously pleased.

Griffith smiled politely. "Not more than an hour ago you would have found me at the edge of camp, downwind of our many campfires."

Gennon _'ahh'_d and looked him up and down. "And you look well. Have you taken care not to be harmed in any battle? I would be deeply grieved to hear news of you wounded."

"You'll find me," Griffith began with a slight nod of his head. "very well, my Lord."

"Follow me then." And they walked together down a long hall with vaulted ceiling and slim stone columns on either side of them.

A tiny soundless flutter of white fabric between the columns caught Griffith's eye. A slave boy against the wall. He had sleepless eyes.

Griffith realized after a moment that there were a few more, standing so still, hidden in the gloom between soft spheres of candlelight and that all their eyes were trained on him. They watched his passing. Were they whispering? Or was that the touch of wind on the shutters?

They were merely the vessels, pretty and motionless like bottles of glass or crystal containing wine for their thirsty master. And yes, he drank them dry. Their heads down, the most dried up looks Griffith had ever seen. Poor wretched souls. And they were ancient looking…

Their spirits must have been a hundred years old and yet they still clung to hope. Hope for what? They didn't know, but they were starving for it for whatever it was. …Until the first day they saw Griffith. Common and royal in one. He kneeled but he was not subservient. Face as soft as snow, body strong as steel. Hushed whispers abounded of a knight of their own come to save them. A prince they dreamed into being.

Griffith met their eyes sidelong and as he did, he witnessed the very moment of their death. It was the sight of him that caused them to extinguish. Because the prince they dreamed was purchased for riches, they felt it in their old bones. He was led to the bedroom, that was the chamber of their continuous tortures, for a noble's consuming. When Griffith passed them, like a great inferno, he sucked their last oxygen away. They were solemn like a row of white wax candles without flames. Each step he took closer to that room was their walk of shame. Griffith had to look away from them.

_When, ever, did anyone make him avert his eyes?_

They reached the end and entered Gennon's solar. A small boy, particularly young, wearing the long white shirt that denoted his servitude was laying still as death on a pallet in the middle of the floor. He awoke (if he was even asleep to begin with) and rose instantly to the sound of Gennon's fuming bark. "You there! Take your bed and leave here at once!"

Griffith realized he would be replacing this boy for the night. But apparently the boy didn't get the message.

He picked up his lightweight pallet and did as he was told. He stole quick glance at Griffith who was standing near the door, and he understood and he died before him just like the others who understood. A hurried patter left on soft nude feet. The door closed shut, locked and then they were alone.

"My deepest apologies, Griffith. That runt is quite forgetful."

* * *

"May I step out for a moment, my Lord?" Griffith asked, stripped from the waist up.

Gennon looked at him, slightly suspicious.

"I've never been this high up in the lord's solar of a castle." Griffith explained. "I'd like to see the view from the balcony. I want to feel the cool air against my skin."

"Be my guest then. I hope you find the view to be all that you expected."

In truth, the boys in white had rattled him. He slid a hand over the railing, trying to compose himself. The soft wind was helping, it centered him for what lay ahead. His battle without armor. His ten campaigns.

There was a voice.

From below.

Casca's.

Calling his name.

"Griffith! Griff-!" she saw him. Her voice halted, stunned silent in the night air.

His heart broke. Not like the tender flesh of lady's tales of sentiment, not like the metaphorical muscle it was.

His heart broke like shattering bones or splintering wood. It broke like pottery dropped from a great height. Smashed on the hard ground.

_No_, he thought with all his might. _How dare she…_

Griffith felt undone by that…that _look_ on her face. Wide, soft charcoal eyes. And he knew that she wouldn't be the same after that look. That he would have to—

This wasn't good. His focus was deteriorating. His steel was crumbling.

Perhaps he'd made himself too brittle, too strong, too cold, too ready, too calm.

_Leave this place, Casca. Leave._ He thought. No. Ordered._ Leave. Leave Now! _His eyes willed her to leave, strong and commanding, could she not see that? And yet, still she stared up and didn't move.

A large hand fell upon his naked shoulder. "Come now, the view never changes, Griffith, in all the years I've resided here. Come now, or you will catch cold." Gennon led him away. His disgusting hand, taking him back inside, it was almost a relief.

The door closed loudly and Griffith took a few careful steps towards the large lavish bed. No more waiting. Let us begin.

But Gennon just chucked and waved him to a table instead. "You're so eager." He said, amused.

Griffith approached.

"Undress first." Gennon said casually, with a smooth wave of his hand, before Griffith could take a chair. "Fully."

Griffith hesitated.

"I want to be able to _see_ you as we drink wine together. Undress and sit. Please, indulge yourself." Gennon poured purple-red wine into jeweled goblets, the finest set he owned. Griffith clenched his jaw imperceptibly. He hadn't expected a prolonged foreplay. This small table was worse, somehow, than the large bed.

Griffith unlaced his pants with nimble fingers, pushed them past his hips. They slid down easily to crumple on the floor and he stepped out of the fabric.

Gennon watched him with oily black eyes. "That… necklace of yours as well. Take it off. It's in poor taste."

Oh. Griffith forgot. The behelit. He set the red egg on the table of luxury drinks and small bottles of male medicine with the stoppers pulled off. Odorous liquid aphrodisiacs wafted to his nose and turned his stomach, clouded his senses with overpowering spice. He stretched his body over the chair like a restless young pagan god experiencing the first sensuous stirrings of ritual ecstasy. That was his well-constructed role after all. That was what Gennon desired and what he paid for. Griffith's dream weaving. Griffith himself. The illusion of beautiful abandoned god who wanted nothing more than to have a feast of pleasure with his noble host. One with wild eyes. Unlike those of the hollow, uninspiring servants.

Griffith let Gennon gaze crawl up his parted legs for a carefully calculated amount of time before crossing his legs, covered himself from view with the outside of his thigh. They engaged in pleasantries.

* * *

"Look at how kind destiny has been to us, Griffith. Star-crossed we are, meant to cross paths, I think. Yes, truly some grand design at work."

"You are like something from out of my dreams. No mortal thing. An angel. A god. Would you believe me if I told you that I loved you as soon as I first saw you?"

"All these long years have taught me that some things in life will surprise you. And a man's greatest fortune is worth nothing without love."

* * *

Gennon musings on love, dreams and destiny were such perversions on the subjects, that each lavish _"Yes",_ _"You're right my Lord, it's as you say.", "Any god you desire, my Lord"_ and approving hum that Griffith uttered was like a self-inflicted wound. He was grateful that Gennon took delight in the syrupy '_My Lord'_ for, privately, it was his darkest possible curse.

The conversation and expensive drink sickened his stomach but Griffith spoke smoothly and sipped from his goblet in the perfect intervals, never while Gennon was tipping the rim of his, drinking deeply, only when he paused, so that he would be able to watch.

"Stand up." Gennon said, once the wine was gone.

Griffith put his goblet on the table and stood, slowly, smoothly, like a willow branch in his movements.

"Come to me. I want to touch you now."

Griffith moved, light and careful on his feet, though he wobbled just once from the sway of alcohol, and stood astride Gennon's right knee. Suddenly, a pair of large hands were sliding up his naked thighs, over hips; along his stomach, to the centerline of his chest and everywhere else… Tested the thickness of his waist, squeezed firm muscles, found the edge of bones. "You are perfect." He concluded after a long inspection. "Does this bring you pleasure?" his voice low like a whisper, thick like honey.

Griffith stared down at him."It does." he obliged, under his breath.

Gennon's hand lingered mindlessly as he looked up. "Now then," he said, eyes already glazed like the hungry black eyes of an animal. "Go over to the bed."

* * *

_It begins,_ Griffith thought when he heard the shifting of fabric over skin and felt Gennon's robe pool around their feet. But he did not think, _at last._

Gennon stood behind him and Griffith could feel his girth and heat looming…followed by its source flesh. Those fat, cracked lips were moving along the skin beneath his ear loud breathing through the nose sounded like gales. The coarse curls of his long beard prickled over the nape of his neck. Thick rough hands were preoccupied with the frenzied worship of the smooth firmness of his belly. A nest of mindless mating snakes writhed in the pit his stomach, a sickening, anxious building heat.

"It pleases me greatly to know that I can arouse you." He said against his ear.

On cue, "I could say the same, my Lord." By now, Griffith's voice had grown cold and charmless but Gennon was beyond noticing.

A demanding nudge at the inside of his ankle encouraged him to spread his feet a little further apart to let swollen flesh slide between them. And then the movement started. Sex outside of his body, a test, a prelude to the sex that was soon to be inside of his body.

"Griffith," he said roughly, voice already thick. "The first ray of daylight. The agreement." He reminded him, pushing hard against him. "First light, that is when you may leave."

Hands glided over his chest and pulled him even closer. "There are robes in my wardrobe. Not from this country, but still very stately things. Take one of them to remember me by."

On cue, "What should you, my Lord, like to remember me by?"

"I need nothing to remember you." Gennon said. A pause. A change of heart." Or…perhaps a single strand of your hair. Yes. That."

"Take three."

And after a while, Gennon's movement slowed slightly. "You're trembling."

"Because I can't stand it anymore." Griffith said, teeth clenched. The truest words ever spoken in that room. And he groaned, it was one of terrible dark seething, of smothering an unspeakable pride… but Gennon had heard precisely what he wanted to hear.

He wobbled, knees bumped against the thick mattress. Then a heavy hand pressed in between his shoulder blades and pushed him down. Draped by wavy curtains of hair, Griffith's face was has hard and still as stone.

* * *

The night wore on and on. Without end. All pretense of companionship and pleasant conversation on the beauty of converging destines dissolved into…this. A different fuck to satiate Gennon's appetite for each and every angle, of his body. Every possible surface to conquer. Reckless consuming. He would fuck him to his last strand of sopping hair if he could.

Even after Gennon had become lethargic, drunk on sex and the spice of male drugs did nothing for him, he had not finished. He crawled over to cover Griffith in sour kisses, praise him with poison words. He said that they should worship each other and pulled Griffith head down to his own body. Looking at him had become a chore, so instead, Griffith tasted sweat and every viscid thing else.

Eventually it did come to an end and Gennon fell asleep, snoring in a tangle of sheets. And now, all that was left was to wait for the first light of day to peak through the balcony door.

Griffith felt empty and sought peace in the emptiness, waited for the quiet triumph to fill the space. For he had won! Yes, ten campaigns. Or more.

The throbbing pain in his body faded to a dull ache and yet he felt every touch lingering like a phantom sensation. Even the point of each hair plucked from his crown. He felt like he was burning…in a deep cold. _Is it this cold in the center of a flame?_ Griffith wondered. _Is that why it burns blue?_ He was their Soul and the fire of their souls glowed within him, but he felt no warmth, no warmth at all.

* * *

To bathe. Griffith splashed cool river water over his chest. After the hundredth splash, he heard footsteps over leaf litter. He knew her from the distinctive lightness of her treading.

All at once, the image of her face, soft charcoal eyes, turned up to him was reawakened in his mind. _Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave._

She took one look at him and—

_Turned to run._

"Casca!" He called loudly. "Come and join me."


End file.
